by Zoe Dawson
“You need stitches,” she said, knowing she was putting off her own confession because she didn’t think she could handle rejection from him. His body language told her he was retreating, shoring up his defenses and doing what any noble, honorable, and strong warrior did. Protect and deny themselves even the base comforts. He was that type of man who didn’t give a second thought to his own self.
It shouldn’t surprise her. It was all about team with them, the brotherhood, all for one and one for all, and if that wasn’t enough to melt her bones, the package all that goodness came in reduced her to slag.
“Stitches?” he asked, one of those expressive brows rising, that damn curve to his lips quirking.
She brazened it out because she did need to look at his wound. It was the healer in her. She crossed her arms again, drawing her composure around her like a queen’s cloak. “Yes, unless you’ve decided you’d rather have a scar than give me a couple of minutes to make it look pretty. I’m sure it’ll impress all the girls.”
“Scars, huh?” he asked as he closed the space between them.
She trembled slightly as the heat from his body drifted over her skin. She held her ground and caught a breath in her throat as he lifted his hand and captured a long, curling strand of her hair. He rubbed the lock between his fingers, then tugged.
His voice dropped to a husky, seductive note as he leaned down close enough so his breath caressed her cheek. “What do you know about scars, Renata?”
What did she know about scars? They built up like little cuts that healed over but left behind a visible sign of what had hurt her. There was scar tissue on her heart, and it had to do with who she was and how she defined herself. How she wanted to be her own woman and maybe she had failed to understand who she really was because she was driven in another direction. God, that hurt, another cut to her heart. She blinked, working at not feeling close to tears.
“Maybe if you’re a willing and cooperative patient, I’ll tell you all about the scars I carry. But be warned. If I talk about mine, you will be required to talk about yours.”
A grin teased the corner of his mouth, but there was another, stronger, and more interesting story in his eyes. “A tough cookie. I happen to have myself a damn aching sweet tooth about now.”
“Everything in moderation,” she whispered and moved into his personal space, crowding him toward the bed. “Come on, bad boy. I know cooperation is a nasty word in your vocab, but indulge me so I can sleep tonight knowing I took care of my healer duties.”
“Cooperation isn’t a nasty word. I cooperate all the time.”
“When you want to. That’s not cooperation, mister. That’s being a jerk.”
“I just like to see you use those brains of yours along with that…persuasion you’ve got that’s much more than moderate.”
She came up against a brick wall. Without hesitating, she took his shoulders and turned him, then set her hand against all that thick muscle and pushed. “Come on. It won’t take any time at all.” She had to stop thinking about getting this man flat on his back. That would lead down a road that could only add more scars.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a pushy broad?”
She chuckled. “No. I don’t think people have used the word broad since the 1940s, there, Maltese Falcon.”
To her relief, he moved. The faster they could get this done, the faster he could sleep somewhere else and they could avoid all that messy, complicated stuff.
“Take your shirt off,” she said, and he sighed.
“Yes, ma’am.” Even when he was being cooperative, it sounded so damn sarcastic.
He pulled his shirt off and sat down on the bed, then went flat on his back. Lifting his arms over his head and clasping his hands together, he waited. The movement thickened his biceps as they bulged, the muscles rounded like small boulders.
“Doc?”
Professional decorum, detached bedside manner, iron-clad ethics. How was she supposed to breathe, let alone think in this man’s presence? She’d never had a chance against resisting him, falling for him, loving his amazing K9. His expression softened and he looked like there was nothing but regret in him. Could it be that his barriers were falling like sand just like hers? That wall between taking and resisting just going transparent. He couldn’t possibly want her more than she wanted him. She’d never felt so vulnerable and stretched so thin in the emotional defense department.
Much too thin.
The fact that he also made her think and question every aspect of her life and the choices she’d made… She could slap him for that. Kiss him uncontrollably for that. Do things with her mouth and hands that would drive him insane and end the ache that never went away. She closed her eyes against the sight of him, the temptation, and the unwelcome wave of emotion welling up inside her. But she wouldn’t cry, even though it was breaking her heart, and he smelled so freaking good, she ached with it. He was the tip of the spear, America’s secret weapon, the guy who had endured surf torture and physical tests that would destroy a normal guy, kicked down doors and braved men with explosives around their chests, doing the job with a cold-hearted, cool-headed, and in such a raw way it made her knees weak. He was a protector, sworn to help and shield anyone weaker and in need of rescue.
He was a team guy and that meant everything to him. She knew that community mindset. She’d been part of it mostly by birth, wholly by her own intelligence, and completely by loyalty. The MD after her name had been her legacy.
She grabbed her black bag and set her knee on the bed, smoothing her hand up his side to his rib cage, meeting the edge of the bandage there. His skin was so warm, velvet over thick granite. Her fingertips tingled and her heart jumped at the sound of his indrawn breath from her touch.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured, peeling back the bandage on the open gunshot wound, soon to be just another scar on his body. She donned gloves and with gentle fingers, she palpated the area around the healing injury, noting that the infection was completely gone, the swelling and redness dissipated. He was on the mend.
She took out a vial and a syringe, injecting a local anesthetic, then went for the curved needle and sutures. She carefully stitched the wound closed, then tied off the end. She pressed clean bandages around the cuts and looked at him.
“That should be it until you need the stitches out in, say, about another ten days or so.” It made her sad to think that she wouldn’t be seeing him to take them out. He would be back in the States, and she’d be continuing her research to honor her commitment with the Paraguayan government.
Yet now she was all twisted up inside both emotionally and mentally. But that wasn’t Max’s fault. She’d participated in those kisses. She’d made her own decisions. He was the smart one.
“Uh, thanks,” he muttered lying there and looking so good it should be criminal. “A little help?” He reached out and she clasped his hand, pulling him up, watching his thick abdominals flex along with the muscles across his broad chest and along his rib cage. When he was in front of her, he reached for his shirt with a small grimace as he twisted, but she was reaching for it too. They touched it at the same time and awkwardly brought it up from the bed together.
There was a small but quick tug of war between them. “Let me,” she said, her words clear. He should let go now.
He grinned. “Pushy broad. I know.”
He let go and she righted it before attempting to slide it over his head. He captured her gaze as he gripped the shirt again. “I’m just going to take it off to sleep,” he murmured.
“Right,” she said, her voice catching. This time she let it go. He turned toward the door. Jugs, who had been sitting by the bed while she tended to his handler, got up to follow Max.
Max stopped at the entrance to the door and she bumped into him. He turned and caught her. He spanned her jaw with his hand, the pulse in his neck suddenly noticeable.
Then he started to tip up her chin. It was easy to read his intent and a shu
dder ran through her as she hesitated. His eyes darkened. If he kissed her now, her resistance to him was so low she would be lost.
The sound of a splash outside the door told her Carolina was having a swim.
That clinched it. In spite of how much she wanted it to happen, she didn’t relish the thought of Carolina right outside the door. She felt as if she was suffocating as she gazed up at him, longing to relent, knowing she didn’t dare.
Her voice was fragmented when she whispered, “No, Max. I think we’d better keep it simple.”
His eyes mesmerized her and his touch was infinitely gentle as he dragged his hand through her hair and caught her by the back of the head, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth, then roughly pressed her against him, his breathing labored.
“Luckily, we trade off the strength we need to resist, but it’s damn hard to let you go. It is better this way.”
“Better? I’m not sure about that, Max. But maybe smarter.”
He laughed and leaned back, looking down at her. “It scares me how hard I try, and I can’t get you out of my mind,” he whispered. “I knew you were trouble.”
“What? I think you and Jugs are more like double trouble. I’ll be lucky to get out of this situation with anything intact, including my—”
“Morion,” he said with an upper-crust inflection in his deep voice.
“I deserved that,” she said.
“You were so pissed.”
“It’s priceless,” she said in defense. “I’m sorry. I was…on edge.”
“You’re priceless,” he said, succinctly, but the understanding in his eyes said he understood what edge she was talking about.
He widened his stance and locked her hips against his, fusing their bodies together from shoulder to thigh in a perfect, intimate match. She sensed he was fighting his own battle and struggling for some thin thread of composure. She turned her head and whispered, “Would it be against any rule if you just held me for a moment?”
With his arm angled across her back, he slid his hand up to her nape, his hold oddly protective. His tone full of censure, he said, “You’re not making this any easier.”
“Good. We’re exactly in the same boat, sailor boy.”
He laughed and hugged her closer. “You’re impossible.”
She shrugged. “Max,” she ground out. “You are such a pain in my ass.”
“Oh, for me, the pain doesn’t stop there.”
“I’m assuming that would include your neck.”
“Yeah, one of many parts of my anatomy.”
“I got A’s in anatomy.”
“I bet you know all there is to know.”
“I’ve got charts and illustrations. If we weren’t both being so sensible, I could give you a demonstration.”
He groaned. Patting him firmly on his sexy, bristly cheek, she eased out of his arms and managed a disinterested expression. “Don’t you need to find another bed for tonight?”
Carolina called out, “Renata, come for a swim.”
He stepped away as she responded, “Be right there.” Then, her blood rushing, her body primed for something she was going to have to deny herself, she turned away and went to change into her suit.
Dodger and his small team of Anna, Professor, and Saint had left in the dead of night. The Land Rovers that Pablo had procured for the two sets of SEALs and Anna were top of the line, the weapons also top grade. Pablo had never let him down. He wasn’t sure how many times the Paraguayan felt he had to repay the life debt he owed Dodger. He was able to get him to take the money the CIA had provided for the clandestine goods. That was at least something.
The original reason the team had been deployed to Paraguay was to find three missing Marines. NCIS agent Shea Palmer had been assigned the task of finding them. That mission had been accomplished with the loss of two of the Marines. The surviving member had spilled the beans that they had robbed a Corta Cartel cash house of a quarter of a billion dollars, and kidnapped Shea’s brother, Jason Palmer, who had gone missing almost two years ago. Things had gone terribly wrong when they fought with Jason and he fell over a cliff. But there was no evidence of a body, and only one of Jason’s dog tags had been found. So, Shea, now Hemingway’s fiancée, would be staying at the safe house and working on tracking her brother. Apparently, he had hidden the money and was the only one who knew where it was. It was going to be ten times more difficult now that the earthquake had chewed up the area for miles around Asunción. Daily aftershocks added to the chaos.
The SEALs were confident that the upheaval had improved their ability to slip under the government’s radar. With communications down, air travel grounded, and emergency services stretched to the maximum, it would be much easier for Team Max to get to their lost teammate and get back out undetected. Hopefully, also making Team Angar Said invisible as they pursued the terrorist leader toward the east and Minga Guazú.
Foregoing their uniforms to appear more civilian-like, Dodger’s teammates were dressed like him, tan cargo pants, green T-shirt with a green concealed carry vest over the shirt, handguns tucked into an inside pocket. They left them unzipped for easy access. Anna, her hair in a loose French braid, was dressed in a putty gray tank top and a pair of green cargo pants that fit her like a second skin tucked into a pair of black combat boots. She had her Nikon around her neck and a bag full of camera supplies on her shoulder. She looked the part of a National Geographic photographer, badass and beautiful. Her gray eyes, lined in black, only emphasized her long, dark lashes. Other than that, her dewy skin and lips were free of makeup.
Fast Lane loaded up into their Land Rover, synced up with satphones for communication when possible. Dodger watched the five members of his team drive away, leaving Saint and Professor with him, a buffer between himself and Anna. Three SEALs were enough, but there was always the chance that a plan could go down the tubes, but Dodger was a master of improvisation. He just hoped they didn’t have to.
Anna stood next to him, her scent as light and beautiful as her. She looked bleak, her body trembling a little, her breathing fast. He reached out and clasped her shoulder, slid his hand down to grip hers. She squeezed, then suddenly grabbed him close, almost painfully, and Dodger simply held on. She breathed hard into the curve of his neck, her fingers digging into his skin as she fought her fear that he felt down to the marrow of his bones. Then, as if she broke inside, the tension snapped. She sagged against him, then after a moment, she let him go and turned away.
“We’re going to find him,” he murmured. “You’ve given us a fighting chance. Max is with Jugs, and you know that animal won’t let anyone hurt him.”
She gave him a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I would move heaven and earth for my brother. We’re going to find him one way or another and bring him home.”
Dodger nodded. It was time to go.
Saint got behind the wheel, and Dodger chose shotgun, relieved not to be sitting close to Anna. Professor climbed in the back seat with her. They drove away from the curb, away from the barely damaged building, traveling north through the better parts of the city. Still, there was destruction once they reached the outskirts and the modern construction. Homes and shops had toppled as if the supports were missing. They turned a corner and saw emergency vehicles blocking most of the road. Saint maneuvered onto the sidewalk, and they wobbled over debris to get to the other side. Broken streetlights left the area mostly dark, but through the red pulses of the emergency vehicles lights, he caught a glimpse of bodies lined up, covered with white sheets.
“Oh, geez,” Anna moaned, her camera whirring.
He’d seen worse in his deployments as an SBS and SEAL, but it was heartbreaking. This damage hadn’t been caused by war or mortars.
They left Asunción behind, part of the city still dark, nothing but their headlights illuminating the way. The road was a mess, but Saint did an admirable job of navigating around the heaves and cracks. They traveled for miles without seeing another vehicle, but i
t was slow going due to the shape of the spotty road. They went over a deep rut and Dodger’s teeth clicked. Saint shrugged an apology and slowed, but it didn’t do anything for the rocking. The thick wheels crawled over the uneven ground, and the slow progress was making Dodger’s skin crawl.
When they finally reached the rough coordinates where Max most likely fell, they drove the Rover into the trees to get it out of sight, parked, then jocked up with the gear packs holding their automatic weapons and other combat goodies along with MREs and water. Saint’s kit was full of medical supplies and a portable litter.
Anna rubbed her butt as she stretched her legs. She shouldered her own pack, carrying her weight, but from a small compartment of her vest, she pulled out a tube and applied it to her lips.
The men were suddenly fascinated with watching her.
She smacked her lips together and smiled. “My lips get dry when I do a lot of walking.”
Professor chuckled. “Women are always prepared,” he murmured. “Radio check.”
They each keyed their radios, but Anna looked at them blankly.
Dodger stepped forward and said, “Press here when you want to talk. Let go when you’re done.”
She looked down to where his hand was, and he removed his touch. She depressed the button and said, “Check. Check.” They all nodded.
They entered the jungle with their helmets on and NVGs in place to see in the dark. In single file with Professor taking the lead and hacking with his machete, Saint next, then Anna in front of Dodger bringing up the rear, they moved forward. Professor hacked at the underbrush until he found a rough path, and they took it toward the river. Dodger kept his eyes on Anna, their way spilling with moonlight, nothing but green in his scopes. He heard the lap of the water somewhere in the distance.
